Can't Hold Back
by Aquaphobe
Summary: This is bad. No, scratch that – this is disastrous. I'm not just crushing or idolising, or even obsessing over my super best friend. I gulp, and I know right then that I've got to get out of here, before I do something colossally stupid. SLASH, Style, oneshot.


_**Disclaimer:**__ alas, I still do not own South Park. The spelling mistakes are, however, mine._

_**A/N:**__ this turned out... far soppier and fluffier than I meant it to. I don't feel that it does the gorgeous artwork it's based on any justice at all, but there you go. /shrugs/_

_Anyway, this is devoted to the wonderful artist __Kayotics__, from dA. Her SP work is amazing, and one piece in particular (titled 'SP – come on and slam') prompted this oneshot. Seriously, go check it out._

_Oh, and I really do apologise for the cheesy title... /headshot/_

...

**Can't Hold Back**

...

A brush of shoulders, of knees, of hands, of bare feet tangled together on the couch.

His cheeks and ears and neck go red, but he still just grins and shrugs, shoving my shoulder and pretending like he doesn't notice.

Like he doesn't notice the tension around us. Between us.

I think it's slowly but surely driving me mad.

All I can think of is reaching out across the gap and wrapping my arms around his neck. When I fall asleep every night, he's at my back and front and sides, all around me, and I can smell his hair and taste his skin. In my dreams he's everywhere, and I'm leaning into him and my hands are in his hair, and our eyes are meeting. Then our bare skin touches and it's wild electricity and pure desire. I wake up in hot flushes and cold sweats, my face bright red and my mouth dry.

In my mind he tastes like pizza and fries and pepsi – a hundred different flavours, depending on what I fancy at the time.

Right here and now, I imagine he tastes like salted popcorn, or maybe the orange juice we're drinking.

I can't focus on the movie that's playing on the television. My knee's jumping with nervous energy. My eyes keep flickering over to his face, and all I can think is that I want to lick his lips.

His eyes flicker to mine and my breath catches. I look away first.

I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks but it's impossible to stop. I have to get away and calm down.

"I'll be right back," I mumble, my voice is slightly hoarse.

"Alright dude," he says easily, but I can feel his eyes on my back as I stand up and walk stiffly away. My steps are jerky, and I have to remind myself to slow down and not run. '_Don't be suspicious_,' I repeat in my head like a mantra, '_Don't be suspicious_.'

That's pretty difficult though, when certain parts of my anatomy are popping up to try and say hello.

When I get into the bathroom, I lock the door behind me and stare into the mirror over the sink. My breathing's uneven and I have this sort of crazy look in my eyes.

Crap, I'm so transparent.

I brace myself against the sink and breathe out a long sigh through my mouth. My lips are a little chapped where I've been chewing them so much recently.

"Come on, Stan," I say out loud, meeting my eyes straight on in the mirror. "Get a hold of yourself. This isn't the time to start getting weird."

And it's true, because I'm already at my limit – and it's not just all the physical stuff that's getting to me.

No, that's just the tip of the iceberg. What's hidden under the surface is the real problem.

You see, I'm arse over tits for my best friend. Yep, that's right, I'm a raging homosexual – or maybe I'm just Kyle-sexual, because I can tell you that no one else is nearly as attractive to me as my ginger haired friend is.

I don't know what it is about him – maybe it's the jewfro, or the long, dorky nose, or his eyes. Yeah, maybe it's his eyes... they're _really_ nice: all green and deep with tiny little flecks of grey, and- and—

When I realise that I've just been staring goofily into the mirror for a while, I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.

But I know it's not just that. I also love his personality – that stubborn bullheadedness and the fiery flare of his temper. I love it when he talks about the things that he's interested in because he just lights up, and his stupid goofy grins are infectious.

I also love how he won't just say something to fit in to other people's ideals. He's his own person, and I've always found that sort of admirable (if not at times completely and utterly frustrating).

Really though, this isn't helping me get anywhere.

Grimacing, I reopen my eyes and stare at my reflection in disgust. "You've gotta stop being so pathetic," I mutter, before twisting the cold tap on and leaning further over the sink, to splash a few handfuls of the fresh, icy water into my face.

The feeling's a brief shock, and I'd sort of hoped that it'd help snap me out of it, but my heart's still beating out a staccato rhythm, and I've got butterflies in my stomach.

Every time I blink, I see him burnt into the back of my eyelids.

It's just around this point that I really realise how dire it's gotten. This is bad.

No, scratch that – this is _disastrous_.

I'm not just crushing or idolising, or even _obsessing _over my super best friend.

I gulp, and I know right then that I've got to get out of here, before I do something stupid.

I turn the tap off with far more force than necessary, and hurriedly rub my face dry on the sleeve of my hooded jacket, foregoing the hand towel.

I swivel on my heel and unlock the door, the butterflies rolling tumultuously in my stomach as I bound down the stairs at the end of the hall.

When I get to the bottom, I practically throw myself at my boots, discarded earlier on the doormat.

I'm on my arse and toeing on my second boot by the time he finally gets up to check what's going on. I try not to meet his eyes, because the confusion and irritation I know I'll see there will make me want to stay. I'm always a push over when it comes to Kyle.

"Dude," he says slowly, enunciating every syllable very carefully. "What's going on?"

I wet my slightly chapped lips as my eyes dart around, trying to think of some plausible excuse. "_I think I'm in love with you, dude – as in, gay for you. Oh, and I really want to bone you, too_," is what I don't say.

Instead, I choke out, "Oh, I... I just realised that I, err..." I flounder. Then I think of an excuse, and try to make up for the fact that I'm a terrible liar." My dad just phoned and said that I have to be home, because I forgot that I was supposed to be helping him with this thing—"

"Bullshit," he says, clearly unimpressed. "You've been acting off for ages now, and I'm sick of it. You've been acting like I have some kind of disease or something! What the heck's up?"

I'm standing up and still not meeting his eyes, but that doesn't mean I can't hear the hurt in his voice.

I really want to reassure him because, y'know, I'm his best friend, and best friends are always there for each other.

On the other hand, it's really hard not to just burst out with the truth – I've never been good at keeping secrets from him.

"No, dude," I say, running my fingers through my hair, and wishing I was running them through his, instead. I pull my hand back and ball it into my side in frustration. "I've really just got to go. I've got.. y'know, stuff."

"Stuff? For fuck sake, Stan, is this about _Wendy_ again? Because if you're still hung up on her, then I'm sure she'll be more than happy to take you back!" He sounds so pissed with himself as he says that, that I just can't resist looking up, this time. When my eyes meet his, he's flustered and annoyed and almost – _dare I think it?_ – jealous.

I can't hold back the insane urge to laugh at just how wrong his assumption is. _I_ was the one to break it off with _Wendy_, when I started realising how obsessive I was getting over my very definitely _male_ best friend. "Oh man," I gasp out around the laughter, "you really couldn't be more wrong."

His face goes from angry, to surprised to suspicious in a few brief seconds, and finally settles on upset. "Then it _is_ something I've done?" His voice is demanding and urgent, and I wonder if he knows how adorable he looks, the freckles on his nose scrunched up and his lip quivering, despite himself.

"No, dude," I say, my twisted amusement drying up just as quickly as it started, because the butterflies are starting to do these almost sickening dive bombs. Great, now I've upset him and I'm angry at myself, and I can't stop myself from stepping forwards.

I want to smooth away the furrow in his brow.

"You haven't done anything – I'm just really fucked up right down," I say, and I mean it. This is all my fault, after all, and even if he's part of the problem, I'm the one to blame.

The confusion's back, but that's okay, because it's pushed the sadness aside. "Why? What's this all about? And don't you dare tell me it's doesn't concern me," he cuts me off when I open my mouth, "because _clearly_, it does."

I click my mouth shut, feel myself getting a little desperate – I'm being backed into a metaphorical corner, and I keep finding my exits cut off.

This time _he's_ the one to step forwards. He blocks the front door in one movement, and he's barely a foot away, and I can smell his sharp, citrus shampoo. It's intoxicating and terrifying, but I've got no where to run and he's staring really deep into my eyes, like he's trying to read my thoughts.

He opens his mouth to say something, and my eyes flick down to watch him. My own tongue darts out of my mouth and wets my lips. When I look back up to see why see hasn't spoken, I catch his eyes locked on the movement. My heart beats so loudly that I'm sure he has to be able to hear it too, and for a second I'm sure he's gonna lean in and kiss me.

But he's backing away and shaking himself out of it. And every centimetre of extra space between us feels terribly wrong, because he's shutting down and pulling away, and for a brief moment, I was almost sure that there was something mutual.

I don't want to lose that possibility.

Before I can change my mind, I'm reclaiming the lost space, stepping toe-to-toe, until our lips are only inches apart. His eyes go wide as I cup his face in my palms, and I wish I could take a picture of that expression and keep hold of it forever, but then I'm leaning in and closing my eyes and kissing him.

My nose bumps briefly against his, and his lips are dry and still against mine. His jaw is tense beneath my palm, and suddenly I'm fearful I've done the wrong thing – he's not responding.

Frantic, I tilt my head and slip my fingers a little further into his hair. I part my lips slightly against his and suck on his lower lip, desperate to get a taste of him before he inevitably pushes me away – I've got to make this one moment as memorable as possible, because I'm honestly starting to regret my actions.

When he finally starts kissing back, my knees nearly give way beneath me. His lips move in a stilted imitation of mine, and warmth bursts to life in my stomach. His movements are tentative and unsure, but his fingers are wrapping in the front of my jacket and his breath is a hot puff against my cheek.

It's over almost as soon as it starts though, because the hand in my collar is pushing me roughly away.

I blink, dazed and dazzled, my hands empty and my lips tingling with the loss.

I've never felt so content and elated as I did in the moment that my kiss was returned, and I'm still reeling in the shock.

"What... What the fuck was that?" His voice his barely a whisper, but the utter lack of emotion snaps me back to reality in a split second.

My tongue grows heavy in my mouth, and suddenly all the butterflies doing loop-the-loops in my stomach are turning to lumps of lead. I don't know how to describe his expression, other than utterly frozen. I open my mouth a few times, but all I do is gape like a fish.

"A... A kiss?" I practically squeak out around the lump in my throat and the building burn in the back of my eyes. '_I knew it_,' I think. '_Of course he doesn't want me. I shouldn't have been so stupid_.'

It's hard not to start sobbing like a baby as he watches me, his expression blank. Finally I can't bring myself to look in his eyes any longer – I clench my shaking fists, disgusted at myself. I can't do anything about the hitch of my breath, or the pathetic sniffle. My world feels like it's crumbling to pieces around me, and all I want is to get out of here. "S-sorry," I mumble, trying to pull away.

Only I can't, because his hand's still knotted in my jacket. He huffs a single, silent laugh and his breath washes over my face.

Startled, I look up through the oncoming tears, and he's smiling this weird, crooked smile that I've never seen before, and his eyes are soft and inquisitive and amazed, like he's just discovered the best thing in the world.

"You call _that_ a kiss? I think you need more practice," he murmurs teasingly, and then his lips are on mine and I think I'm melting.

My very last thought, before I forget how to think entirely, is that he tastes like mellow spice and the orange juice he'd been sipping earlier, and it's perfect.

...

_**A/N: **__Anyway, I hope you enjoyed – though I'd love to hear your feedback either way. Thank you for reading, and if you have a bit of extra time, please leave a review!_

_- Aquaphobe (02/01/14)_


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